


Life in Your Own Living Room Can be an Adventure Too

by winethroughwater



Series: Living Room [1]
Category: Sarah Jane Adventures
Genre: F/F, grown-up maria
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 13:29:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10413246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winethroughwater/pseuds/winethroughwater
Summary: The one situation Sarah Jane Smith had never expected to find herself in was being seduced by her 18 year old neighbor. (Previously posted on Teaspoon and ff.net)





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the record, Maria is 18 in this fic; that’s legal on both sides of the pond

During her 58 years on (and occasionally off) the planet, Sarah Jane Smith had seen many strange and wonderful things, had adventures beyond most people’s wildest imagination.  She’d survived Sontaran torture tactics and weathered cryogenic freezing.  She’d witnessed the birth of the Dalek race and the near extinction of her own species.  And once she’d even had a run in with the Loch Ness monster.  Yet the one situation Sarah Jane Smith had never expected to find herself in was being seduced by her 18 year old neighbor.  And in her own living room nonetheless . . .

 

Upon later reflection, Sarah Jane supposed she should have been more suspicious when Maria rang the bell and waited for her to answer instead of just using her key and letting herself in.  At the very least, the bottle of wine the girl shyly presented her with and her offer to cook dinner for the two of them should have raised a warning flag.    

 

Maybe, just maybe she had been a bit too happy to see Maria after the girl had been away at University for nearly a month without a visit home, had missed her more than she had thought.  Or perhaps she was just too charmed by the way Maria looked standing in her doorway fiddling nervously with a cheap bottle of wine to do more than take her friend into a tight hug and invite her inside. 

 

She should have noticed. 

 

She _really_ should have noticed. 

 

The heels—Maria never wore heels.  They just weren’t practical, especially if you were being chased by a Slitheen.  And her shirt was unbuttoned to a degree bordering on inappropriate for this time of day, revealing a downright impressive amount of cleavage.  And what’s more, Maria had straightened her normally curly hair, so that it fell in layers around her face accentuating her already striking brown eyes. 

 

Yes, she should have suspected at the door. 

 

And she should have gotten a clue during dinner. 

 

But she didn’t. 

 

If she had, Sarah Jane would have put a stop to it . . .

 

She _should_ have put a stop to it.

 

As soon as Maria sat down too close to her after dinner, she should have distracted her with some new theory about an alien threat, instead of relaxing back against the couch and admiring the flush in the girl’s cheeks and how right it felt to have her here again.

 

And when Maria’s hand brushed against hers and lingered as she was talking about her biology lecturer, Sarah Jane should have excused herself to clear up the dishes from dinner.

 

She should _not_ have started to stroke the back of Maria’s hand with her thumb. 

 

And when Maria took her by the chin to tilt her face towards hers, her lips parting and eyes fluttering shut, Sarah Jane should have simply put a stop to it. 

 

But she didn’t.

 

That’s how Sarah Jane Smith came to find herself kissing Maria Jackson, the girl—emphasis on the _girl_ —next door, for all she was worth. 

 

One soft, hesitant kiss turned into several. 

 

Several kisses turned into a full out snog. 

 

However, the simultaneous sensations of Maria’s weight settling on her lap and the feel of smooth warm skin beneath her palms gave Sarah Jane a brief moment’s pause. 

 

_What had possessed her?  And when had her hands snuck up the back of Maria’s top?_

 

“Eldrad must live,” Sarah Jane mumbled into Maria’s hair.

 

Maria rested her forehead against Sarah Jane’s, and asked curiously, “Who’s Eldrad?”

 

“I’ll tell you some other time,” Sarah Jane laughed.  And for once Maria accepted that.  It could be that Sarah Jane’s usual promise to fill Maria in at some later point in time was more effective when coupled with a lingering kiss and a hand squeezing around her bum . . .

 

* * *

 

“I’m in love with you.”

 

* * *

 

Sarah Jane’s world spun to a dead halt, one that Maria literally felt as Sarah Jane stiffened beneath her, her hands falling away to fidget awkwardly beside them. Maria let out a weary sigh just this side of crying, anticipating the scene that was to follow, when Sarah Jane’s hands moved up to her arms to push her back so they could face one another. 

 

“That’s just the wine talking,” Sarah Jane suggested, grasping for anything to explain the current situation, without embarrassing either of them further. 

 

“I’m not drunk.”

 

And that was true, Sarah Jane admitted.  They’d barely finished half the bottle between them. 

 

“I love you.” 

 

Maria was kissing her again. 

 

And it was harder to stop this time but Sarah Jane caught Maria’s face in her hands, forcing her to look into her eyes, trying to make her understand. 

 

“And I love you too.  You are a dear, _dear_ , friend, but you’re not _in love_ with me.”

 

Maria turned her head and kissed the palm of Sarah Jane’s hand with the corner of her mouth. 

 

“But I am.”

 

Sarah Jane watched as her traitorous thumb brushed against Maria’s lower lip, the light caress of Maria’s breath on that digit causing an equally disloyal response from the rest of her body as she shivered. 

 

Sarah Jane was ashamed to admit that it was she who grabbed at the back of Maria’s neck, forcing her closer to claim the next kiss. 

 

“I’m three times your age.”  Sarah Jane placed a kiss in emphasis against the hollow of a throat unmarred by the inevitable march of time—no laugh lines turned to wrinkles, no freckles turned to age spots, just lovely smooth skin that somehow, _wonderfully_ , tasted of vanilla. 

 

“Doesn’t matter.”  Maria’s hands slipped inside Sarah Jane’s cardigan while she distracted her with a trail of kisses along her throat. 

 

“Oh, I think it does,” Sarah Jane countered even as she instinctively angled her neck for Maria to continue. 

 

“You’re beautiful.”  Another kiss.   “You’re brilliant.”   And another.

 

Sarah Jane let out a disbelieving huff—maybe 30 years ago she would have believed that.  She tried another tactic. 

 

“I’m your best friend’s mum.”

 

“Luke doesn’t mind.”

 

“You’ve talked with Luke about this?”  Sarah Jane blurted, eyes widening in alarm.

 

Maria nodded.  “He thought it was a good idea actually.” 

 

She kissed the skin just below Sarah Jane’s ear, breathed across the lobe.

 

“What will your dad say?”

 

“Something tells me he’ll probably be less shocked by this than when he discovered we were being yanked in and out of time by the Graske.” 

 

 _Shocked_?  Sarah Jane could just imagine that conversation:  “ _I know I’m old enough to be your mother, Alan, but I’m shagging your teenaged daughter.  Care to come over for a spot of tea later?_ ”

 

She’d never be able to face Alan Jackson again if she didn’t stop this. 

 

And if _Maria_ Jackson’s hand didn’t stop what it was currently doing, Sarah Jane would never be able to stop this. 

 

Grabbing Maria’s hand from her breast, Sarah Jane held it in her lap. 

 

They needed to slow down. 

 

They needed distance. 

 

She pushed at Maria’s thighs until the girl relented and fell back onto the couch. 

 

Sarah Jane stood up, tugging her top and cardy into some semblance of order. And not knowing what else to do with herself, she started to pace. 

 

She watched Maria staring up at her from the sofa, all kiss-swollen lips and mussed hair—and hope.  She didn’t want to say this but it would hurt less now than if she let things continue on their present course.  

 

“This is very flattering, Maria.  But what you’re feeling . . .”  Sarah Jane paused.  The words literally burned—not just because of the blow to her ego that they implied, but because she really wanted nothing more at the moment than to press Maria down into the sofa, run her hands along all those soft curves and whisper exactly what she wanted to hear.  “It’s just infatuation.  And not with me.  But with this life.  All the excitement.  The aliens and space and saving the world.  You’re just confusing that for something more--”

 

“Stop.” 

 

Maria pronounced the word with such force that Sarah Jane did indeed, stop talking and stop pacing.

 

“Don’t compare us to that.” 

 

Hurt dulled the spark in Maria’s eyes and Sarah Jane felt ill.

 

“This isn’t like it was with you and the Doctor.” 

 

“That’s not what I meant,” Sarah Jane argued, shaking her head vehemently.  She would not be pathetic.  Not again. 

 

“Yes.  It is.  But I’m not you and you are _not_ the Doctor.”   

 

Sarah Jane willed her threatening tears into nonexistence. 

 

“I know that you would never leave me.”

 

And she did start crying then, could feel the warm trails down her cheeks. 

 

“How do you know that?  How do you know that I won’t disappoint you, break your heart?”  _Leave you in the wrong bloody country and never come back again_ , she almost finished.   

 

“Because I know you, Sarah Jane.” 

 

She stood there just staring at Maria, stood there staring at her silently for so long that Maria started to leave. 

 

“I’m sorry . . .” Maria stammered, but Sarah Jane put up a hand to stop her.    

 

Sarah Jane closed her eyes and took a deep breath. 

 

And it was as easy as that. 

 

“Right, then.” 

 

Sarah Jane turned without preamble and walked from the room. 

 

“Wait!”  Panic rose in Maria’s throat.   “Where’re you going?”

 

“Upstairs.  To my bedroom,” Sarah Jane’s voice called from the hall.  “I refuse to have sex in my living room like some randy teenager . . . even if I’m about to have sex _with_ a randy teenager.” 

 

(Despite having traveled extensively in the future, Sarah Jane could not actually predict the future.  Thus she had no way of knowing that she would later regret that comment about the living room when she found herself sprawled across the settee in the attic—well, regret it as much as she could while Maria licked her way up her thigh . . .)

 

* * *

 

Sarah Jane had been chased up these stairs more often than anyone had a right in their own home, once years ago by a rather dishy Bane henchman, again by a Dalek who, despite ridicule to the contrary, managed to make remarkable time clearing three flights of stairs, and even once by her own toaster thanks to one of Luke’s brilliant ideas gone wrong.  But no one, not the Bane, nor the Dalek, nor even the toaster, had approached the task with as much enthusiasm as Maria Jackson currently did. 

 

However, their race up the stairs was to be punctuated by frequent stops and starts. 

 

They had barely cleared the first flight when Sarah Jane turned to kiss Maria. 

 

As Maria’s fingers dug into her hip, maneuvering her ever closer, Sarah Jane did take a moment to reflect on the irony that if she fell down the stairs, even at this point—while attempting to both walk backwards and kiss Maria at the same time, as she currently was—she would probably break said hip.  

 

But then Maria somehow managed to back her against the wall and get her thigh at just the right angle between Sarah Jane’s own to drive all thought of near mortal peril from Sarah Jane’s mind. 

 

Eventually, they started their climb to the bedroom again. 

 

But then there was another lengthy pause when Sarah Jane finally undid the row of buttons down Maria’s top, revealing a very black and very lacey bra and a swell of breasts straining against it.   _Could breasts strain to be freed?_   Sarah Jane wondered.  Regardless of their sentience, she promised herself to liberate Maria’s as soon as possible and sealed the unspoken pact with a kiss to the top of one.  And then the other.  Just for good measure. 

 

 _Why were there so many bloody stairs in this house?_   Sarah Jane wondered.  _It wasn’t even that big._  

 

Of course, then there was an awkward moment when Sarah Jane’s arms got twisted up behind her while she was trying to get rid of her cardigan, effectively trapping her in her own knitwear. 

 

The devious little spark that caught in Maria’s eyes did nothing to aid Sarah Jane’s coordination.  Nor did Maria seem to be in any particular hurry to help free her. 

 

Sarah Jane swallowed.  Years of being knocked out and tied up by all and sundry across multiple galaxies had dampened the appeal of that particular kink as far as Sarah Jane was concerned.

 

But apparently Maria was not of that opinion. 

 

Maria watched Sarah Jane twist about, trying to shake loose the offending sweater.  It _was_ a very tempting picture.  _Her_ Sarah Jane, whose lips were just as swollen as her own must be, looking at her like that and struggling to get out of her clothes.  This was the stuff that her every fantasy had been made of since she was 15.  It was especially tempting when Sarah Jane seemed to give up and sulk against the wall, looking at her expectantly.  Temptation ruled as it so often does in situations such as this and Maria nipped at a particularly inviting spot on Sarah Jane’s throat, before teasing the spot with a flick of her tongue.  She topped it all off with a good old fashioned grope—before helping Sarah Jane untangle herself.

 

(It should be noted that the Sontarans had never tried that particular tact on Sarah Jane—had they done, given her current response of yanking Maria up the stairs after her—sometimes two at the time, Sarah Jane would probably have given up the Doctor, Harry and the future of the human race straight away.)

 

They finally reached the landing to the second floor.  Sarah Jane’s bedroom was just down the hall.  But generally their adventures had led them up the next flight of stairs to the attic, Mr. Smith’s lair, repository of all the bits and bobs Sarah Jane had collected in her travels through time and space, and neither Sarah Jane nor Maria could pass by without a glance in its direction. 

 

The wave of guilty nostalgia that swept over Sarah Jane was quickly replaced with something quite different when Maria breathed heavily into her ear: “I’m so having you in that attic later.”

 

And with that Sarah Jane pulled Maria into her bedroom and slammed the door resolutely behind them. 

 

Propriety, Doctors, Sontarans, and irate fathers be damned. 

 

* * *

 

  

“This is just tonight--” Sarah Jane’s words were little more than a loud breath against her hair. “--can’t happen again.”

 

The hand groping beneath Maria’s bra, fingers flexing into her breast seemed a strange accompaniment to her words.

 

Sarah Jane’s hand retreated to join its mate in fumbling with the hook at her back–she bit Maria’s lip a fraction too hard as her concentration slipped.

 

“Get it out of your system and move on.”

 

Fingertips ghosted reverently across her bare breasts, before Sarah Jane pulled her own top up over her head and leaned against her.

 

It was perfect. Sarah Jane was warm and soft and everywhere she touched burned, but–

 

“No.”

 

The look of something akin to pain that passed over Sarah Jane’s face mirrored what Maria was feeling as she forced the word past her lips. She would agree to almost anything Sarah Jane asked of her–but not to that.

 

Sarah Jane was backing away from her, beginning to apologize.

 

“That’s not what I want.”

 

* * *

 

Maria’s fingers tugged loose the knot at the waistband of Sarah Jane’s pants before Sarah Jane could still them in her own.

 

“I can’t do this if you’re going to--”

 

“Are you going to make us stop if I don’t agree?”

 

“Yes.”

When Maria’s fingers slid through undeniable evidence to the contrary, Sarah Jane willingly conceded the argument.

* * *

_Black lace_  to match the bra lost somewhere along the way.

 

Somewhere among the scattered flotsam of Sarah Jane’s brain was both the thought that she very well might not survive this–unless she reminded herself to breathe again–and that she wished she hadn’t worn knickers with embarrassing little pink stripes today.

 

She hadn’t exactly had this in mind when she’d gotten dressed this morning. But it was obvious that Maria had. Those were the sort of knickers that women only wore when they were,  _well_ , on the pull.

 

An even deeper recess of Sarah Jane’s mind wondered just how often Maria had worn these in the past underneath her clothes when they were together, only to lose her nerve.

 

And with that thought, the knickers in question joined the pile of discarded clothes in the floor.

* * *

There were still things in the universe that could surprise Sarah Jane Smith. Like the fact that Maria Jackson talked during sex. A sort of babbling commentary flowed out of Maria. It was at once both immensely disconcerting and utterly erotic.

 

Some of it was indecipherable against clavicle and hip, some of it enunciated in graphic clarity– things she had thought about alone in her bedroom across the street as she touched herself, how Sarah Jane tasted better than she had imagined.

 

There were the inevitable declarations and flights of melodrama– _I’ll die if you don’t touch me_  and  _I love you_ –empty of meaning outside moments of crisis.

 

Once there was a brief apology when teeth met too sharply against the underside of her breast.

 

There were four-letter words that would have earned the girl a disapproving glare in any other context–one in particular, panted out against Sarah Jane’s ear like a mantra, made her desperate.

 

Occasionally there were questions to accompany curious fingers– _like that?–_ and questions that were answers within themselves– _do you want me to make you come?_

 

But sometimes Sarah Jane spoke too, said things that she didn’t mean– _this can’t happen again_ –and Maria stopped talking.

 

* * *

 

It would have been silly not to call Maria when she needed help investigating—okay, _breaking into_ —the New World University.  Maria’s apartment was only 15 minutes away from their London campus and Maria didn’t have classes on Thursday evenings.  There was no reason for her _not_ to invite her along.

 

It would have been ungrateful of her to leave without taking Maria to dinner.  What was sharing a few mediocre beers and picking at the pasta that _she-just-had-to-try_ , when Maria had just helped save the world, or at least this part of England, from an alien techno-virus?

 

It would have been inappropriate, not to mention _uncomfortable_ , to make love to Maria in her car.  Figaro’s were not made with that sort of activity in mind.  Sarah Jane’s elbow bore a bruise as testament to that fact. 

 

Following Maria up five flights of stairs to her apartment was the only sensible course of action.

* * *

 

“I just need to—the beer, sorry.” Maria disappeared into the loo, the only other room in the cramped studio. 

 

Maria’s apartment was living room-bedroom-kitchen-study, all in one seemingly claustrophobic space. 

 

But as Sarah Jane dropped her coat onto the back of a chair, and absently undid the buttons down the front of her blouse, she noticed little touches of Maria everywhere that softened the effect of the cramped room—that brought it to life. 

 

A photo of the whole gang at the skate park stood in a glittery frame next to the television.  On the small desk in the corner there was another photo, this one of a much younger, _happier_ Alan and Chrissie Jackson, a dark haired toddler between them. 

 

She sat down on the narrow day bed to unzip her boots and kick them away, smiling at the sight of the Munch print that Clyde had given Maria as a joke because it had reminded him of a Reticulian. 

 

Her jeans joined the boots in the floor. 

 

On the small side table there was a photo of the two of them taken last year at Luke’s birthday party, smiling like mad over a cake with only four candles on it—and beside it, the puzzle box she had given Maria years ago.  She picked the box up, the weight of it familiar, running her finger along the intricate pattern carved onto its cold surface.

 

She looked up to see Maria staring at her from across the room, arms crossed to cover her bare breasts.

 

“I’m glad you’re here.”

 

“So am I.”

 

Coherent thought and the ability to breathe seemed to flee from her as Maria crossed the room. 

 

Perhaps she had undervalued the merits of sex in one’s living room.

 

 


End file.
